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...

"We ... aren't people?"

He finally couldn't contain the anger like a volcanic eruption, and roared, "Who said it, who prescribed it? We obviously have joy, anger, sorrow, love and hatred, can breathe fresh and foul air, and we can Taste the sweet, sour, bitter, and salty taste. We have hope, dreams, pride, and something worth pursuing.

"We struggle, we struggle, we strive to cultivate, we conquer everything worth conquering in this world, how can we not be real people, how can ...

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Whether it was his appearance, his personality, his abilities, his identity, nothing about him had ever been banal. Was it his choice?

No. He was merely but a tormented soul doing its utmost to live the life it had learned to never enjoy.

Would being picked by a glorified universal abductor calling itself a system bring something out of him?

Would he finally learn to breathe in the pool of blood that suffocated him? The Harvester does not sow, he only collects.

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